Betrayer: (The Cursed Bloodstone Book 1)

The windows tremble as the door bursts open the following day. Luc and Gabriel carry a wounded Praxis between them. Blood stains Praxis’ surcoat and drips from a corner of his mouth.

My breath hitches as I rush to my feet and meet Luc’s haunted eyes. Fear burns there. It smolders from him, gripping me around the neck.

“Heal him,” he says, his tone low, guttural.

Words knot in my throat as Gabriel shoves items from the table, sending them toppling, before placing the dying man on top. I step close and place my fingers against Praxis’ neck, feeling a faint beat.

In quick, jerky movements, I cut away his surcoat and gasp at the amount of blood oozing out of the deep gouges in his chest. It looks like something with large claws sunk into his flesh and ripped. Gabriel thrusts a clean cloth into my hand, and I press it against the injury. Praxis lets out a rattling breath, but he doesn’t moan or thrash against my hold.

Olah, help us!

He’s too far gone.

After a moment of holding the material against the wounds, I pull it back, noting the deep gouges, the torn flesh.

Dread finds a home deep within me. “You should have taken him to your healers.” Then they cannot blame me when he doesn’t make it.

“I brought him to you,” Luc growls. “Heal him.”

Regret pierces my veins, my bones, my useless hands. I should be more effective, different, an actual Kyanite healer. Instead, I was an errand girl in the apothecary, the one who hung on their every word. The one who listened with rapt attention as they talked in their healing tongue.

I planted herbs with the best of them. I studied until the light faded from my windows. Still, I could never wield any gifts. My magic was always useless.

“I’m not what you think I am, Luc.” Ragged breaths escape me as I shake my head. “I don’t have magic. I have never had it.”

Gabriel shouldn’t have encouraged this. I didn’t hold back the truth from him.

“You’ve been planting herbs. Yes?” Luc asks. “Go pick some.”

My posture slumps forward as I speak, my words raw, defeated. “They’re not ready.”

And even if they were, they couldn’t heal Praxis. Only an actual Kyanite healer could help him now.

“Then you’re useless,” Luc grumbles as he slams his hands against the table.

“Leave us, Luc.” The firmness of Gabriel’s tone sends surprise rippling through me, as does Luc’s compliance. After a quick look at the dying Praxis, he quits the cottage with his shoulders slumped and his face downcast.

Frustration grips me as I meet Gabriel’s gaze. “I can’t help Praxis.”

“You can.” Gabriel turns to the shelves and collects more rags. “Say the words of your people.”

Heat singes my cheeks as I shake my head and pull the cloth free, taking another glance at the gaping lacerations and the blood seeping from the wounds. Praxis has lost too much, and the cuts are too deep to sew. Even if I managed to bind the torn flesh, an infection would kill him. If he lived long enough.

Gabriel places his right hand over mine. “Say the words.”

My breath escapes me as I lay trembling fingers against Praxis’ shoulder. For many summers, I have struggled to draw on my magic, and it never happened.

Now this.

I’m disappointing the one man I have tried so hard to please.

“I can’t.” The truth escapes me in a broken whisper as memories haunt me—all those summers of never being good enough.

Assurance glimmers from Gabriel’s eyes as he speaks in a firm tone. “You can.”

More warmth scours my cheeks, my veins, my heart, even the part of me that desperately wants to heal Praxis.

Say the words.

Gabriel’s determination burrows deep within me, to the inadequacies, to the failures, to the incompleteness. I draw on his determination the way fire inhales air, whispering in the tongue of my people, chanting those healing verses. Bringing life to dying weeds, decaying deserts, barren oceans. Calling forth Olah to aid me on this quest, to heal, to renew, to bring back what was.

By the time I finish, my pulse thrashes in my throat, and my fingers tremble. I clasp them together as Praxis inhales, and I cringe, waiting for it to be his last breath. He exhales, and the walls spin. The floor tilts.

Fire scorches my wrist, traveling downward to wrap around my hand, my fingers. I gasp as pain sears through my serpent mark like tiny needles stinging my flesh. I stagger forward, catching myself against the table.

“You healed him,” Gabriel says, his tone low, hoarse, awestruck, as if he can’t quite believe it happened.

“That’s impossible.” I inhale and exhale quickly, breathing through the throbbing, willing it away, willing the walls to stop spinning and the world to soften around me.

The pain ebbs as Gabriel moves to the washing stand and wets a cloth. He returns and wipes the blood covering Praxis’ chest. On his second pass, the wound disappears, leaving behind a faint scar. I step back and shake my head.

“This is impossible.” Weakness overtakes my limbs. My arms. My ability to stand. I lean against the wall, using it for support. “I don’t heal with magic. I have never healed with magic.”

Gabriel continues caring for Praxis like I didn’t speak. Maybe he knows arguing would be futile.

I shift my focus to the window, watching the swaying olive trees, the clouds darkening the sky.

This is Astarobane. People don’t use gifts here.

“Gabriel, listen to me. This doesn’t happen,” I say, desperate for him to understand. To listen.

After he finishes doing the best he can with rags and water, already stained red with blood, he lifts his gaze to me. “I know.” How simple he says those two words, as if we talk about the price of wheat.

I jab my right thumb into my left palm and stare down at Praxis. He still lies there with his eyes closed and his face pale.

“Why isn’t he awake?” I ask.

Gabriel’s attention shifts to the man lying across our table. “I don’t know. You’re the healer.”

Think, Sol. As hard as I try, my thoughts remain jumbled. Breathe. Think. I inhale and exhale, drawing calm to me, like the shore pulling waves inward.

Clarity returns, all those months of training, all those moments of sitting by patients after a Kyanite healer cured them.

“People often take time to recover after their wounds are healed with magic.”

“Then, perhaps, that’s why he hasn’t awakened.” Gabriel moves to the door with the basin and disappears through the opening.

Sticky strands of hair cling to my cheeks as I shuffle to the sofa and sink against the cushion. Gabriel returns and refills the terracotta bowl with clean water.

“This is Astarobane.” My stomach tightens as I continue. “People don’t cast magic here.”

“No, Bloodstone people don’t cast magic in Astarobane,” Gabriel says plainly. “Nobody ever said an outsider couldn’t.”

“I’m an outsider?”

“You know what I meant.”

“No, I don’t,” I say honestly. “Can people use magic here?”

Kassandra said they cannot.

“Yes.”

I search Gabriel’s face for deceit. He gives nothing away. No twitching. No glancing away.

The gods must have cursed me. Nothing else makes sense. Why else would they only allow me to heal while I stand among Bloodstone people?

How ironic. How frustrating. How…

I glance up, catching Gabriel’s stare. Gratitude shines there. Not hate. Not scorn.

“Thank you, Sol.”

My name.

My actual name.

I look away, unable to face whatever it is he must be thinking.

It’s cowardly, weak. I’m neither of those things. But right now, I’m all of them.

I’m a Kyanite.

He’s a Bloodstone.

We hate one another, or at least, we’re supposed to loathe one another.

Now this. Acknowledgement. Gratitude. My real name!

“You must forgive Luc,” Gabriel says after a moment. “Praxis is his cousin, and he has very few people left that he cares about.”

“I understand,” I say, my voice soft. “And I cannot fault him.”

I know what it’s like to only have a few people I care about. Mother was my light, and the nights have been so dark without her.

“Sol.” Gabriel’s tone draws my attention back to him. “You cannot tell people about using gifts here. At least not yet.”

I rub my cheek and nod. “I know. Otherwise, everyone would run to me for all their ailments.”

It would become overwhelming. I have seen it in villages I visited. A Kyanite healer showed up, and people came from miles seeking healing.

Torchlight dances across Gabriel’s face as he speaks. “Partially, yes.”

“What is the other reason?”

Loose black strands fall over Gabriel’s forehead as he hunches forward and stares down at Praxis. “Most Bloodstone people fear magic.”

“Oh. I don’t want them to fear me.” I lick my bottom lip and continue. “I want to earn their respect.”

I have no choice. Without their respect, I’ll never get close enough to their leader to carry out my mission. It doesn’t matter what I really think about them. Nor does it matter that I want to avenge their cruelty toward Kassandra. All that matters is sticking to my course. I have come too far.

“Then keep this a secret for now.” Amber shadows play across Gabriel’s face as he pours a goblet of tea and sits near the still sleeping Praxis.

A comforting silence falls over us as I join Gabriel. I shut off the questions ricocheting inside me, all the ones mystified by healing Praxis. I can analyze everything later. Instead, I focus on Gabriel and smile.

He called me Sol.